Just go talk to him
you'll see what I see
behind all his faux toughness
is a deeper story trying to flee
and while most see masculinity
behind his walls, I observe his insecurity

i'm tired of being boiled down
to my barest, simplest parts,
and compromised beyond my core.

my facets ignored as if repugnant
or strange--
as if all i can ever be is what portait
painted itself.

to yell into an unyielding void
and be met with a stiff and resounding silence.
to be so resounding unheard despite
sheer and shrieking volume.

to exist in a space where metaphor scarcely follows for fear that truth will dilute it.

what importance did it ever hold?

it was all a cry.

and no one heard.

There's things I never want to feel again. Not for them. Not for me. Not for no one. Not for no situation. There's things I never wanna see cause it'll be hot flashes of what used to be. Things I used to do. The person I used to cater too. The person I used to be. The person whom I've shed. That ain't me. Thats dead. Those aren't my feelings. Those aren't real. They're not real. I've healed. I've healed. They were. Believe me they were. But not no more. Those feelings don't belong to me, they don't right? Not more, no sir. The one with untended emotional wounds and unmet needs. The one you never tended, prioriorites you didn't feed. They don't belong with the new me. With the new year. With the new skin. They belong with the broken. The old me with kinks, swollen bottom lip. The teary eyed, the big brat. With the small hands that fit perfectly into yours. That's the old me with the old you. May they rest in peace. But they keep me up on nights like this, tell em please stop calling me. Please ** stop calling me.